Deep Echoes- final edit ARC TEAM

by Melody Ash

  “Mawmaw!”

  “You hush, boy. You lucky to be with your momma and poppa, you know that. Now you mind and get inside a’fore you cause more troubles.”

  The dust from the path took to the air and tickled Caitlin’s nose. The sneeze happened before she could stop it, and even as she pressed hard against the wall of the cabin, Caitlin knew she’d been discovered.

  “Who out there? I hear’d ya. Who there?’

  Caitlin searched the landscape before her, calculated the distance to the trees. If the woman didn’t come around to the back of the cabin, she might be able to make it to the forest, and they’d be thick enough to conceal her for a little while. Might buy some time to figure out what happened, where she was.

  “Who there?” the woman demanded, but the footsteps didn’t sound any closer.

  With a deep breath, Caitlin pushed off the back wall and sprinted for the trees.

  The woman’s voice quieted as Caitlin headed further into the cover of the South Carolinian pine and cedar. Here, it looked like she could run forever, deep into the mountains, never to be

  seen again. But then, that would also mean never going home, and that terrified her more than being discovered by a woman and her child.

  Just a little bit further, Caitlin thought as she leaped over a fallen tree. Pain shot through her foot as she came down and turned the right ankle. She fell to the ground, grimaced as she glanced down at a joint already swelling.

  She rolled closer to the log and laid back against the forest floor, stared at the blue sky above.

  Great. Just great.

  Closing her eyes, she circled through her thoughts. Any other time, she’d be more than equipped to deal with the sprain. But the backpack carried only a brush and tiny shovel, nothing to stabilize a weakened ankle.

  If she were to venture a guess, Caitlin would say she’d had jetted right into Gone with the Wind. Obviously, she’d found Mammy. Now where were Scarlett and Rhett?

  She groaned. The stone. Her brows furrowed as she sketched the symbols onto the forest floor, searching for a memory of their meaning, then shook her head. Impossible. A rock doesn’t have any real power.

  Caitlin sat and reached for a nearby broken branch then flattened out the dirt. Content she was alone, she scanned the property beyond the trees. Worker houses that appeared out of mid-air. The dirt path, the woman, and her child. The air.

  The clues were everywhere, impossible or not.

  But time travel was a bedtime tale, a corny romance story on a lonely Friday night. It wasn’t real.

  The throbbing in her ankle cut short the thoughts. Caitlin grimaced as she pulled her leg closer, examined the blue tint shadowing the balloon that now filled the skin. Caitlin shook her head. She’d never run, and hardly be able to walk, until it healed.

  That could easily spell out five to ten days of being stuck here.

  Even though she still wasn’t altogether sure where here was.

  Using the log to steady herself, Caitlin pushed upright on the good leg, hopped to a tree, and leaned against the bark with one shoulder. She stared through the woods at the cabins. If she was indeed in pre-Civil War days, that meant her parentage would cause an uproar in the Caucasian population, and the African-American population may only be fractionally more welcoming.

  And then, there would be the issue of the plantation master discovering a strange woman harbored on the property. Complications didn’t begin to define the situation that would create.

  But then, if she got her hands back on the stone, wouldn’t it be as easy as simply doing another wave across the symbols? Voila! She’d go home? Healing in the twenty-first century would be far easier than here among strangers and potential enemies.

  Caitlin reached for a thick, fallen limb, trimmed the leaves and thin branches, pressed the wood into the sodden earth to test her weight. A rough cane, but it would do the job. Then a simple wave, a zap back through the plastic air, and she’d be home. No one would know, no one would be put in danger.

  A warm southern breeze eased across the forest as she moved to the tree line and carefully listened. No more voices. Maybe the woman returned to wherever she was supposed to be, the child locked in a cabin. Although, the child should be working as well, which meant someone would be looking for him. She’d have to be careful.

  Caitlin hobbled across the field, eased next to the cabin, and rested for a minute. When the they materialized, she’d dropped the rock on the ground, and she doubted it moved since. Her

  brows furrowed. Unless it went back home. If it were possible, that would mean she was stuck.

  A shiver ran down her spine.

  With one last test of her weight against the limb, Caitlin hobbled to the path, smiled to see the stone where she thought it would be. Clumsily, she bent down and retrieved it, glanced along the dirt path, then breathed a sigh of relief. She was alone.

  “Now, just a quick wave, and home I go,” she whispered. Grimacing as she put her foot down, Caitlin waved a hand over the symbols, closed her eyes, and waited.

  Nothing.

  Opening her eyes, she scanned the world around her. Nothing changed. “That doesn’t make sense.” Another wave, eyes open, she waited for a white spark or a jolt of electricity or anything.

  No plastic wrap around her lungs, no Sean, nor the wonderful twenty-first-century world. “Oh, come on. This can’t be happening.”

  She waved her hand over the symbols again and again, faster, more frantic. And her heart dropped when time and again, nothing changed.

  “Okay,” she whispered. “Obviously, I’m doing something wrong, or different, from the first go around. Maybe this thing needs to be recharged or something.”

  Her thoughts shifted through all she’d learned about the practice of hoodoo. There was no recharging the stone, but if it was, in fact, a hoodoo artifact, from all she remembered, everything about the conditions would have to be identical for the thing to work again.

  Caitlin looked at the sun. The weather was identical to back home, but maybe the sun was hitting the stone from a different angle. Painfully, she circled, angled it beneath the sun, tried again. Then raked a hand through her thick curls now loosened from the ponytail.

  “Okay. For whatever reason, I’m stuck. So, figure out exactly where here is, learn what I can, and figure out how to get home.” Caitlin took a step and stumbled to the ground, gritting her teeth against the pain.

  “O’ chil’. What you doin’ back here? If the masta catch you, it be whippin’ for sho.”

  The woman hurried to her side, eased Caitlin to her feet. “Oh, lawdy chil’. That bad there.

  Come inside.” The woman looked around; her face panicked. “We can’t stay out here, we be seen for sho. Come. Come.”

  Chapter Three

  The woman helped Caitlin into a cabin under a roof riddled with thin gaps and tiny holes.

  Very little furniture existed save a small, crudely built table, piles of thin material gathered in two corners, and a stone fireplace with a well-dented pot sitting on the hearth. A single bed built of weathered wood stood in the corner, the blankets pockmarked with holes and frayed at the ends. The space was pitiful, depressing, and yet love hung from the walls in an invisible film of retreat.

  Caitlin looked at the woman at her side.

  “‘Tis the best house I ever lived in.”

  Caitlin nodded, forced a smile. “It’s very nice,” she said in a whisper. It was late afternoon now, and an overseer could return from the fields any time to make sure none of the labor had snuck away. The risk of someone hearing a conversation through the thin walls was too high, and not one Caitlin wanted to take.

  “You are kind,” the woman replied with a nod. “It’ll do. Rest where the grandchil’en sleep.”

  She helped Caitlin to the pile of material furthest from the door. “I’m Mitilda.”

  Caitlin had to wonder, as she inched closer to the wall, how so many people lived in such a tiny space.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mitilda. I’m Caitlin. I don’t want to impose.”

  “Impose?”

  “Um, be a problem.”

  Mitilda shook her head with brows furrowed as she studied Caitlin for the first time. “You not dressed like a slave.”

  “I’m not a slave.”

  “Underground Railroad?” Mitilda nodded as she whispered with some urgency, eyeing the backpack in Caitlin’s hand.

  There was no sense in correcting the error, Caitlin wasn’t sure how to explain a truth she didn’t quite understand herself. Aside from passing through the plastic wrap-like space and shortness of breath, there was no hint that anything actually happened during the few short seconds it took to shift from decimated cabins to standing, living history. A dream only shattered by the reality of an injured ankle and the woman standing in front of her. Mitilda was real enough, Caitlin thought, and how that made sense still tickled every nerve.

  “I be back. Rest here,” Mitilda said, breaking through Caitlin’s thoughts. She hurried outside and quickly returned with two small sticks. Mitilda settled next to Caitlin, the sticks resting next to one leg. “‘Tis bad, but ‘twill heal with these here sticks and scraps. You best rest a day or two.”

  Caitlin nodded as Mitilda wrap strips of torn clothing around her ankle with a gentle hand.

  Two or three days trapped in the eighteen-hundreds—an endless opportunity to study lives firsthand. And countless opportunities to cause irreparable damage to history. Or, she wondered, was that just something that happened in the movies and fiction?

  “That there should help.”

  Caitlin examined the make-shift bandage, then smiled. “You did a good job. Thank you.”

  Mitilda grinned. “I’s old. Spend ‘nough time in this here life, and you learn to do a lot.”

  “I’m sure. Forgive me, but you don’t work in the fields?”

  Mitilda shook her head. “I’s too old to pick cotton. I would have been sold during the last auction but masta’ decided to keep me so as I can fix cuts and help the sick to keep my people in

  the field. If they’s come in hurt at the end of the night, I fix ‘em so they can go back out the next day, or they be punished. I be punished.” The smile was gone now, replaced with a sadness brought on by years of captivity. “I take care of the child’en too young to work. Sometimes go to the masta’s house when they have a dinner party. They make use of me.”

  Caitlin reached out and gently rested on hand on top of the older woman’s weathered skin.

  Sadness, yes, broken, no, and Caitlin couldn’t help but admire her. “I’m glad you were here today.”

  Mitilda smiled. “You talk funny. Like the masta’s family only different. Are you learned?”

  Caitlin nodded. “Actually, I’m not from around here. I was wondering if you can help me with something?”

  A bell rang in the distance, and Mitilda jumped to her feet. “‘Twill have to wait. You stay here and hide. Do not come out of the cabin. If the masta finds you, ‘twill be trouble for sho.”

  Caitlin nodded once more as Mitilda hurried outside. The woman talked much better than Caitlin expected. From all the history she’d studied, slaves weren’t allowed to read or write to create a sense of dependency on the owners. Plantation owners also felt, however misguided, that the dumbing down of a people prevented revolts.

  But Mitilda possessed a far better understanding of English than a kindergartner, which was the accepted level for a typical slave. Caitlin wondered if the master, whoever he was, accepted it, or if he knew. People could find a way to play dumb when needed or wanted, and maybe that’s what Mitilda did for survival.

  Caitlin brought the stone from the backpack and looked at it again, ran a hand over the markings, not expecting the cabin to disappear. When nothing happened, she rolled her eyes. “Of course not.” She traced the markings with one finger, remembering seeing something like them in a book once. Her fingers traced them once, twice, three times. A ritual marking, she remembered. “Obviously time travel, that much is clear, I think.” Caitlin chuckled. “But why isn’t it working now?”

  She pinched two fingers across her forehead. Nothing she had ever seen gave a step-by-step account of how to perform hoodoo rituals, and certainly nothing regarding time travel. “If the plantation masters knew about this,” she ran a hand through her hair. “Oh, what they would have said.”

  With a passing glance at the now bandaged ankle, Caitlin struggled to stand, hand on the weak cabin wall. She glanced upward at the slits of the sun shining through the roof. On nice days, the light must be welcome. During storms, it must be horrific—not a dry spot anywhere.

  Caitlin shook her head. Shelter from the elements, but not much. It was already hot and stuffy.

  She could imagine what late July must feel like inside. Or should a hurricane come through…

  Caitlin’s chest tightened at the thought. How many must have lost their lives in storms, those lives and deaths left unrecorded and lost to history?

  Hand against the wall, Caitlin hobbled her way through the tiny space. The table held only a couple of crude spoons that looked as though they’d been hammered with rocks or some other equally crude instrument. A couple of wooden bowls wiped clean, and a small horse carved from wood. She touched the horse and smiled. Maybe Henry’s toy? Whoever it belonged to, it was sure to be a treasure they didn’t often receive.

  She turned, scanned the rest of the cabin. A single change of clothes, she noticed as she counted, one for each member of the family. No shoes, no books, no paper, no writing tools.

  What they did have looked like it was brought in from a dumpster, and Caitlin guessed that

  wasn’t too far off the mark. The plantation master probably didn’t give them more than a few rags once a year, from everything she read, and she guessed dinner was scarce too.

  But none of these details answered the single question on her mind. First-hand knowledge to bring back to the table, but that knowledge was useless until she got back home.

  Her ankle hollered in protest as she attempted to walk. Finally, Caitlin sunk back to the floor. One day in the cabin was probably safe enough. Give the ankle a chance to heal and then she’d be back around tomorrow.

  Caitlin gritted her teeth. She’d had a sprained an ankle a time or two in the past and knew how unlikely it would be for any dramatic improvements to occur overnight. These types of injuries took time. But staying longer was out of the question.

  When Mitlida came back, she’d talk to the woman about the rock. Being found among the ruins of this cabin, it must belong to Mitilda’s family. Chances were, she ‘d know a thing or two about the Hoodoo symbols.

  Then, Caitlin thought as she settled back, she could go home and leave the past to figure out the future.

  *

  Footsteps against the wood slat porch startled Caitlin awake, and she bolted upright, readied herself. It was common for plantation masters and the overseers to perform random checks for anything they considered contraband. In a room so thinly dressed, hiding places were scarce.

  And in a place where the landowner prevented an uprising at all costs would mean no weapons.

  A weapon. Caitlin grimaced. One would certainly help but wasn’t necessary. If needed, she’d fight fist-to-fist. Self-defense had been a helpful field skill in the past, and now, being in the past, she thought with a chuckle, it might come in handy again.

  She balled up both fists as the door opened, then relaxed as Mitilda walked in, followed by a man and woman who looked ready to fall over. Behind the couple, two children filed into the cabin, both scantily dressed. Everyone looked exhausted but wore smiles all the same.

  Caitlin sat up, ready to move, or leave, whatever the family demanded of her. They didn’t receive much respect in their lives, and she thought, it was the very least she could offer in exchange for their kindness and the risk they were taking by allowing her to take refuge in their home.

  Mitilda waved
a hand. “Sit, sit. This is my daughter, Etta, and her husband, James. I tells them about you. There is no reason to get up. ‘Sides, you shouldn’t be on your ankle lessen you want it to be worse.”

  Caitlin shook her head as her eyes locked on the two children who had settled on the floor, bare bottoms rested on the rough wood. “I can’t intrude like that. I’ll camp in the forest, allow you your privacy.”

  Etta raised a brow while Mitilda nodded. “I tells you she is learned.”

  “You no slave, are you?” Etta asked.

  Caitlin shook her head. “No, I’m not.”

  New steps across the porch caused an exchange of worried glances to pass across the family that was impossible to miss. Caitlin’s pulse quickened. If she’d been discovered alone, the punishment would hers alone to bear, but if Mitilda’s family were thought to be harboring a runaway slave, the penalty could be death. She couldn’t allow that to happen.

  “Come here, chil’ren,” Mitilda said in a hushed whisper. They ran to her side and she herded the kids into a corner behind the table.

  The door opened and a man with light brown hair stood in the doorway. Dressed in a fancy red coat, there was little doubt in Caitlin’s mind he was someone important on the plantation, but his face was kind, and Mitilda and her family relaxed instantly.

  Not the master, then.

  “Good evening, Mitilda. I understand I’m a night early, but…” he hesitated as his eyes fell on Caitlin. A warm grin spread across his face.

  Caitlin instantly decided she liked him.

  “Well, who do we have here?” he asked as he took another step into the cabin, a minor limp favoring his right leg. It was barely noticeable if someone wasn’t paying close attention.

  Mitilda smiled. “Ev’ning, Mr. John. This poor woman twisted her ankle. She be stayin’ with us ‘til she heal.”

  Mr. John held out a hand. Caitlin reached to shake it, but instead he gripped the tip of her fingers in one palm and kissed the top of her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, m’lady.”